


do I wanna know (if this feeling flows both ways)

by Anonymous



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, aaand its also a coffee shop au folks!, fair warning: lots of handholding dont say i didnt warn you, issa slow burn babeyyyyyy, jaime is an artist au, jaime is an artist brienne is his muse, regretfully there's some initial j/c but jaime's gonna get thru that much dont worry, we are gonna cruise through this sea of PINING bc what is J/B is not INCESSANT PINING
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-08-19 07:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20205646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The last thing Jaime expects when he walks into an unremarkable cafe is to find that tall awkward girl from a couple of his classes hunched over a pile of notebooks. But he has never talked to her and he can't even remember her name, so he saunters over to her table to waste her time like the absoluteassthat he is.





	1. An Unremarkable Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> this started off with the idea of "what if Jaime loved drawing" and then it just snowballed from there because when has brevity _ ever _ been my forte
> 
> (characters belong to GRRM i dont own anything)

Jaime’s mood is already half past sour when he pushes open the doors to the unremarkable cafe on the far end of campus. He orders the midnight mint chocolate frappuccino to combat his bitter temper (Tyrion has teased him countless times about how _fancy _his drink is but it has never stopped him from ordering it before so it surely isn’t going to stop him now) and by the time he’s handed the bill to the young barista Peck and taken the first sip, his mood is considerably sweetened by the drink in his hand.

So what if Cersei doesn’t want him to apply to Highgarden Academy? It had led to another disagreement again tonight._ Don’t be stupid. I am staying here in King’s Landing_, she had insisted, _don’t you want to stay here with me, Jaime?_ And he did, he did very much and he told her so, but she wasn’t convinced that the Kingsguard aren’t going to accept him after _the incident_ last year and no amount to Tywin’s threats or money was going to change that._ Oh Jaime_, she rolled her eyes with that tilting smile on her lips that made her look so beautiful, _it’s nothing father can’t fix, you only have to ask him_.

_But I don’t want father to _fix _this_, he tried to be adamant and Cersei was getting annoyed with him he could tell,_ I don’t want Casterly either. I only want you and if you’ll just run away with me to Essos __—_ but Cersei hadn’t let him finish.

“This again?” she’d swept off the couch with the same tone of finality in her voice as their father’s, “You don’t _want _Casterly, Tyrion _won’t _get Casterly and even though father refuses to see it, I am the only one_ worthy _of inheriting the Rock.” She dared a dismissive flick of her hand, “I won’t give it all up for your foolish romantic whims.”

It didn’t hurt that she was right, Cersei was Tywin’s heir through and through even if their father was too archaic to see it. What hurt was that she _was right_ and that he was _foolish _to dream such a simple life that didn’t involve their father or his money. He was foolish, and a _hopeless_ romantic who never learnt and Tyrion had told him so before_—_ among _other things_ that Jaime had been too afraid to ask Cersei, lest she confirms his worst fears.

“Yes, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to _give it all up_ for a chance to fuck the Kettleblacks all over again.” he slipped finally, with as much cutting ice in his voice as he could muster. He had never suspected that Cersei wasn’t faithful to him. There had been other men she had “pretended to date” to keep any suspicion away their relationship _—_ that silver-haired lead guitarist Rhaegar, that Student President representative Robert, but none that Jaime didn’t know of. She had always said that her heart was Jaime’s and his heart was hers. And Jaime, _the fool_, he had believed her.

It wasn’t until Tyrion took him aside last week and showed him the pictures that his friend Varys had snapped of Cersei snogging random idiots behind the bleachers —even that freshman Moon Boy; and Tyrion confirmed himself (albeit reluctantly) that he had seen both Kettleblack brothers leave their Lannister household on several occasions when Jaime wasn’t home. Jaime didn’t want to believe it, his whole world had come crashing down. If that was true, if that was _true_ then— did Cersei ever _really love him _?

He desperately wanted to ask her but he wanted more proof before he accused her so blatantly. Half because he _still _didn’t believe it, and half in the hope that it was all lies, fingers crossed that what Tyrion had said had all been a joke. But Tyrion wouldn’t joke about something so cruel, his brother had looked genuinely remorseful. With a weary sigh, Jaime had finally started suspecting that _maybe_ Cersei didn’t really love him the way he loved her when he saw her with Rhaegar again in the hallway, smiling that charming smile she smiles at Jaime, twirling her hair the way she twirls it at _him_ when she wants something from him. It was all so practiced that for the first time it made Jaime sick that he hadn’t noticed it before. The revelation hit like a ton of bricks. She used him the same way she used Rhaegar and Robert_— but_ _she had promised, she had _promised_ me that I was _different_ that her love for me was real, _a voice cried inside his head. Despair rose as he realized with a chill that _maybe she just wanted him to follow her around, love her devotedly _(which he already did)_, be her forever secret lover whom she promised everything but actually gave very little to _(which he was well on his way to becoming)_ and he only got to love in her the dark by sacrificing his own life to fulfil her ambitions and her ambitions only _(which he was suddenly too tired to do anymore).

Which is why he thought this scholarship at Highgarden would be a good idea. Their Art Programme was brilliant and he loved sketching; maybe for once, he could finally carve a life for himself that wasn’t all about Cersei. He tried telling her about it this evening but she wouldn’t have it. She wanted him to apply for the Kingsguard Scholarship here at KLU itself because she’d be doing her postgraduate here as a business major and _why the hell wouldn’t you want to stay with me Jaime?_ she had demanded with a high nose and those fiery eyes that still stoked lingering desire in his body.

Presently Cersei didn’t say anything at the face of his accusation, she just stared at him with that cold fury seething in her eyes. It took her a few seconds too long to come up with an excuse and Jaime knew then, in her extended silence that she had never expected him to find out about her infidelities.

“_Lies. _You know I have to quell any rumours that may_—_” she started saying but Jaime was one step ahead of her now. He had been dreading this confirmation, sealing it away at the back of his skull and yet, his little outburst had brought it all to the front, the dirt now laid bare for both of them to see. He stared back at her and saw no remorse in her gaze, only indignation that he had found out something she had _clearly _never meant him to.

“Save it” he muttered before brushing past her. He shut the door loudly behind him and exited warily into the late evening air. He wanted to turn back and tell her that _it’s over_, but he feared he’ll mean it and _who will he be then, without Cersei?_ Who could he possibly be without following his twin, grasping at her ankles for direction? Jaime doesn’t know and he dreads _that_ the most. That fear had been hot on his heels when he walked into the unremarkable cafe, it had been lingering on his mind as he ordered his drink and sipped absentmindedly. And now that the drink was done, the sugar-rush that nominally lifted his spirits was gone, Jaime fell back into his musings. If this is a clean break, if she_ really _lets him go, what will he do? Will he —_ should he_ — he takes out his phone and checks his messages real quick.

**09:02PM**: 0 new messages

Well, _fine then_. He turned to the barista and was going to order another drink, when he realized that there was nearly no one in the cafe. Except for Peck the barista, him, and that tall stranger bent low over a book in a corner. Something about the strong musculature, the firm set of the shoulders, stiff and hunched looked familiar and Jaime sat straighter in his seat. _Wait_. He _almost _recognized her, she was in a couple of his classes, sitting a few seats in front of him. Something _Tarth_, for sure. He had seen her surname printed on the back of her college hoodie. He’s seen her from a distance, hanging out with the Tyrell kids — he can tell she’s a stickler for rules, easy to scandalize, probably never swears, will be grateful for any attention he gives her at all. And most surely a virgin.

_Entertaining_, at the very least. Her flaxen blond hair was messy near her ears and she constantly tucked a few strands back only to have them spring free every few seconds. She was frowning at the book, armed with her set of highlighter pens like a knight at a tourney, looking as homely as ever. Fantastic.

He sauntered over to her seat and waved his hand under her nose. He knows it’s irritating when he does that which is why he couldn’t help doing it to her. Her gaze shoots up at him and there’s that permanent scowl on her face as he was expecting. Perfect. And hideous.

“Brian? Didn’t expect to see your ugly mug here,” he says as he sits down opposite her, “What are you reading? Something smutty, I hope.”

For a moment, Jaime thinks she is going to stand up and smack him straight across the jaw but he sees her resist the impulse. She stays seated. She _knows_ he’s deliberately saying her name wrong and she’s even uglier when she scowls up close, but she doesn’t correct him. She blinks at him a couple of times, anger dissipating into confusion like she can’t understand _why _he’s talking to her. Good. He doesn’t know why either.

“Lannister.” She turns the word in an unfamiliar way on her tongue, like this is the first she’s spoken his name out loud and she isn’t sure of the enunciation. It’s stuck between an acknowledgement and a question.

Then she shrugs, like she’s decided that he isn’t even _worthy _of a response and then she picks up her highlighters and goes back to her work all over again, paying him no mind as he sits and waits for her to say more, hopefully something insulting, so he can lash out and get rid of this pent up frustration that his talk with Cersei had left him in. Instead, the silence is heavy and awkward.

She sits mighty in her silence and Jaime is left drumming his empty cup and thinking of something to pull at conversation. She is bent low over her books and notes, and Jaime tilts his head to read her upside-down handwriting. He catches a few words and phrases: _age of heroes, andals, taverns, knights, first men, children of the forest._

History, she’s probably studying history. She’s focused with utmost concentration, scribbling here and there every so often, her long fingers fast and light against the paper. _Nice hands_, he thinks, and for a moment he is content watching her write, the sound of pen scraping against paper filling the silence. He finds himself wishing he had his sketchbook with him so he could draw her hands. They look very graceful in the warm cafe lighting, the lights and shadows so elegant he feels an itch at the back of his head at missing this opportunity to sketch it. He shakes that thought away and instead, Jaime focuses his gaze on her face. He is promptly rewarded with a pink tinge spreading up her cheeks.

Ah, so she _knows _he’s watching her. He takes a moment to study her face. She isn’t _beautiful_ by any standards, no. Her face is too broad and her nose has been broken too many times and her lips are a bit too puffy to be attractive. Notwithstanding how absolutely uncomfortable she looks in her own skin, at all times. She is as tall as him, he decides, or maybe even taller. He makes a mental note to compare heights when she stands up. Her short unruly hair has her tucking it back every few seconds and Jaime blurts without thinking, “you should get a hairclip.”

“What?” Her face jerks up in irritation and Jaime is taken vehemently aback with the crystal blue of her eyes. _She does have astonishing eyes_. He doesn’t know if they’d be unremarkable on a different face but on her mismatched features they’re nothing short of _stunning_. It’s a colour he doesn’t know how to define, lighter than the ocean and darker than the sky, brighter than any eyes he’s ever seen — including his twin’s.

“A hairclip.” he continues, gesturing at her head, “it’s bothering you, so I thought…” Her drifts off and her gaze softens momentarily.

“Oh.” is all she responds before turning her eyes away, turning a furious shade of red that splotches her skin and Jaime has a thousand quips ready on his lips but then she says, “Good idea.” with a sharp nod and the instinct dies in his chest.

He nods once before relaxing back into his chair. He checks his phone again and there are still no messages or calls and she can probably sense his restlessness because she looks up and asks him quite plainly, “are you waiting for someone?”

“_No_.” he says as smoothly as he can. He _isn’t _waiting for Cersei to text him. He isn’t —

“You keep checking your phone.” She shrugs.

“That’s because you’re not offering any better conversation, _wench_.” he taunts and as her eyebrows furrow he can’t help but grin.

“Don’t know why I have to offer any conversation at all,” The scowl is back on her face and maybe she even grit her teeth but he’s too amused with her expression to care. She continues, “and my name is Brienne, not Brian. Not _wench_.”

He puts on his most charming smile as he slides back into his seat, “and I’m Jaime.” He’s seen people succumb to that smile on a regular basis, fawn over him and let him get away with literally _anything_, he knows the power of it. But Brienne flinches and her eyes widen in confusion before the red climbs up her neck and settles into her cheeks and Jaime’s grinning now, making sure she understands that he_ knows_ how she’s reacting to him.

“I know who you are,” she mumbles, struggling to mask the redness as annoyance, and then she says, to Jaime’s utter delight, “_fuck off _from my table, Lannister”

“Yout table?” he chuckles, “didn’t know you had it in you to curse me.”

“I can do far worse,” she promises as she flexes her arm in a way that makes her biceps strain against her hoodie. A deep line sets between her brows as she recaps her highlighter and looks him dead in the eye, “What do you want, Lannister.”

“What I want, wench,” he leans forward and invades her space but she doesn’t flinch, “is simply for you to humor me.” He realizes suddenly that the last time he’d seen her on campus was probably a month (or more) ago. “Haven’t seen you around in Selmy's class, did you drop out?”

If she is surprised with him noticing her absence, she hides it well. Instead, she eyes with a suspicion that he isn’t sure he warrants before replying carefully, “I was on an exchange programme in Highgarden.”

That perks his interest and he replies almost excitedly, “Highgarden? What for?”

Now she looks truly puzzled, “a fellowship under Randyll Tarly.” Her expression sours at the memory and Jaime waits for her to speak again but she offers nothing more.

Her frown deepens and suddenly she is in a haste to pack up her things. Jaime watches as she almost angrily stuffs her things into her bag, pointedly avoiding his gaze. He isn’t sure what he said about Highgarden that could offend her so, but she’s slinging her bag over her shoulders and when her eyes accidentally meet his as she’s rising, she jerks away like he has _singed_ her. She’s already strolled out of the cafe by the time Jaime realizes that her eyes were glistening with unshed tears. It makes him deeply uncomfortable and he feels this need to chase after her and— and —_and what?_ He doesn’t know. Instead, he nurses another frappuccino as he walks back home in the cool night air, his mind still trying to make sense of that last weird interaction with the wench, before Tyrion finally texts him to ask when he’ll be home and if he’ll grab some Pentoshi takeout on his way back.

When he sees Brienne in class the next day, she ignores him just as always and Jaime does his best to_ ignore_ the feeling in his chest that craves to meet her _remarkable_ blue eyes again.


	2. To Be Brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I don't like you, Lannister"
> 
> "I don't like you either, _ Tarth _."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: we still have the slight complication of j/c but i swear jaime's working through it.

Jaime didn’t talk to Brienne again. That impulse is lost in the avalanche of wrath that Cersei has brought down on him. She doesn’t text or call him, no intention of an apology or explanation. Just denial and icy emerald glares. And Jaime stares back at her, as impassive as he dares. They always did that— either fucked or fought. Sometimes both, so much so that fighting now without fucking her felt odd. In retrospect, Jaime could see that their whole relationship was built on thorns— disagreement and trysts pricking away at Jaime even now, even after his threat of disentanglement from her.

He fears he would forgive her if she asked, wretched as he was. All he wanted was for Cersei to apologise to him, to swear her love to him and _for once_, _mean_ it. He hated waiting, wanting like a beggar. But too many times, he has been on his knees, begging Cersei to take him back. He won't beg again. Besides, even if he _did_ take her back after this… would he be able to trust her ever again, if _at all?_

Jaime didn’t want to think about it. He distracted himself by scribbling in his sketchbook. He drew what he saw on the streets: people walking past each other in haste, corners of buildings, storefronts, a beggar sitting against the pavement (Jaime slipped a two hundred dragon bill into his bowl), everything that lived in the urban landscape was a subject of his curiosity. Occasionally, when he was feeling brave, he would tentatively dip his brush in color and paint, but never with the abandon that he wanted to. Something always seemed to hold him back, a fear breathing down his neck, a voice in his head whispering that he was a fraud, an amateur; and the second he tried to draw with colour (and consequently, failed), he would expose himself for the pretender he was.

However, with each stroke of pencil and charcoal, his sketches got just a little bit better. Except, almost absentmindedly, he found himself sketching the wench, two seats ahead of him in the lecture hall. The back of her head, the width of her shoulders… Jaime could imagine the muscle definition underneath. He would sneak glances at her every now and then. _Purely for artistic purposes_ he’d tell himself. He noted the strength of her arms, the nape of her neck, her straw hair messy on the days he was sure she didn’t have time to comb her hair after showering in the morning. He remembered how nice her fingers looked in the cafe so long ago and often drew from that memory. Unbidden, he found himself scribbling in class only to later realize he had been drawing her hands. _Again_.

After two weeks of giving him the cold-shoulder (Jaime usually caved by then), Cersei climbed into his bed one night. In the dark, her deft fingers and practised kisses woke him up to the sweet promise of _more_ and Jaime _almost_ gave in. He almost returned her kisses, he almost pulled her closer. He almost forgave her for something she hadn’t apologized for and likely never will.

He_ almost_ did.

But then she breathed his name in that needy sultry lull of her voice that always sent Jaime’s blood in a tizzy and suddenly it was_ too_ familiar. Jaime couldn’t help but wonder if this was how she pretended with Rhaegar, with Baratheon and the other idiots who took her in her bed, who took her _love_ for granted. Just like him. He had blindly given her everything she had always wanted. He has never learnt to deny her. Even though he couldn't push her off just yet, Jaime didn't kiss her back.

"Cersei, I can't" he made himself say, but his body was already a traitor, bowing to her whims.

Her nails dug into his arm and she pulled back, fixing her cold glare upon him. In the dark, her eyes looked lust-ridden and menacing.

"Stop this nonsense, Jaime. You _want_ me." she sounded so sure and she was perhaps right but… her nails were starting to hurt and Jaime found it in himself to break out of her grasp.

"What happened with the Kettleblacks?" he asked, almost pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. He knows she's heard him for her face went even angrier. All she needed to do was not lie to him. That's it. That's all he's asking for. The truth. And he’d give himself to her again.

She withdrew in an instant, "You're delusional, Jaime." she insists, "it's always been you. you're the one I love."

"Did you or did you _not_ fuck Osmund or Osfrey or whatever the fuck his name is?"

"No."

"You're lying."

She bends down to kiss him again, with a triumphant smile on her face, "So you're jealous." but Jaime pulls back anyway,.

"Answer me, Cersei."

She narrows her eyes, her grin morphing into something sinister before she groans in disappointment, "ugh, you're _useless_ Jaime."

And with that she raises herself off his bed and is gone. Jaime makes no attempt to stop her, he just runs his hands over his face in anguish. All she had to do was just admit it. But even that had been asking for too much. How could he trust her? He _wanted_, he wanted to. _So much_.

With a frown heavy on his face, he pulls half a bottle of scotch from a nearby cabinet and drinks himself to a fitful sleep.

* * *

Brienne was sure the universe was out to spite her. She runs her eyes over words on the notice-board again, confirming twice, thrice, four times. Yes, the Universe hates her. There could be no other explanation for this. She swallows heavily and risks a glance at Jaime who is walking out of the lecture hall. His backpack is slung casually over his shoulder and Brienne feels a pang of envy. _Why does he get to be so effortlessly good-looking when she has to put in every effort to look even plain?_ _It just wasn’t fair! _She had seen Jaime Lannister around campus before she ran into him at the cafe. He is usually with his beautiful sister who sneers at anybody who dared to even so much glance at her. Brienne didn’t have to speak to the woman to know the range of her contempt. Jaime was much the same around her, gaze as sharp as his sister, hair as golden and his face twice as attractive. Brienne _hated_ it.

She hated her weakness for beauty, and her helpless contempt for it. Everyone around her got to be _normal_ if not beautiful; but with her unfeminine height, her muscular build, her twice broken-nose, her broad face, her unmanageable hair and her _ridiculous_ freckles she was nothing but a sore sight. She had accepted her ugliness as a part of her a long time ago, accepted that she will never be beautiful, never be desired, never be loved. She had tried to teach herself to live with that. But the world never stopped reminding her. _The ugly beast_, Connington had called her. _Brienne the Beauty_, Hyle had laughed. He wasn’t laughing a minute later with her fist in his nose and dirt in his mouth. Brienne had let her tears flow only after she was safe in the privacy of her bathroom and not a second earlier. That had been how Galladon had found her.

Beautiful people had it so easy, a smile here a wink there and the entire world was catering to their whims like they are the Lords of Ancient Westeros. But for Brienne, they would either laugh at her or instantly mislike her. Her face made no friends and her beastly figure frightened the others. Brienne the Beast. She had tried to make her peace with her ugliness, true, but she would be lying if she said she didn't hate how much it still hurts.

And then there were people like the Lannisters. The Twins. Beautiful as from the covers of a GQ magazine and twice as intimidating. They were proof, flesh and blood, that the gods can be _very _giving when they choose. Golden curls, green eyes and the physique to go with. Brienne couldn’t help but be a tiny bit envious of these gifts that she has so strongly been denied, and she hated herself more for it.

The Ice Queen and the Kingslayer. The Golden Twins. Their titles preceded them wherever they went. One of them the coldest and perhaps the meanest person Brienne has ever encountered. The other a murderer. What a pair they made. Brienne had never interacted with Cersei personally, but she had seen Margaery and Cersei often engage in a battle of wits, the cold cutting voice of the Lannister against the sweet thorns laid out by the Tyrell. Brienne could never hope to play a part in such a battle, she didn’t have the cunning for it. Besides, even if she wasn’t her roommate, Brienne would root for Margaery every time.

Presently, Jaime has already walked too far away in the opposite direction for her to call his name. Shouting would only invite unwanted attention. So she follows him, matching his pace is a few quick strides.

“Lannister!” she calls as she catches up with him around the bend. He slows down, smirking when he notices her.

“Ah, wench” He cocks an eyebrow and it’s infuriating, he is _beautiful_ and it makes jealousy twists in her stomach, “to what do I owe the honour?”

“Did you check the notice board? Selmy announced the pairings for the next assignment.”

Jaime pulls the earphones off and shrugs a shoulder, “I didn’t bother. Why?”

His nonchalance is just as infuriating and then he tilts his head, his eyes brazenly running over the features of her face, lingering on her eyes and her treacherous face blushes without fail.

“Do you have a condition?” he asks even before she could respond, a mocking smile breaking on his lips. He gestures to her now-reddened face and his eyes are lit up with amusement, “you’re as red as sow and half as pretty.”

The jealous anger that had bubbled in her fades in an instant. Replaced by a dull numbness. _The world never stops reminding her. _

“Fuck off, Kingslayer.” she says in a voice that’s somehow both calm and distant before she turns away from him altogether. There must be some way she can dissuade Selmy from pairing her with Lannister. There has to be. She can’t deal with another Ronnet Connington, not _again_.

* * *

The wench never stops perplexing him. She looked so angry, blushing such a dark shade of red when he had merely _looked_ at her. And instantly, Jaime was rising to the challenge to see if he could make her angrier, make her face go purple.

And instantly, he knew it was the wrong thing to say. Her big blue judgemental eyes hardened and all the color in her face vanished as if someone had flipped a switch. He was so engrossed with this sudden change in her features that it wasn’t until she had walked at least two paces away from him (again!) that he registered what she had said to him.

_Kingslayer. _Of fucking course. She had called him_ Kingslayer_, that aurochs of a woman!_ That stupid ugly wench, what does she know! _He clenches his fist in frustration and stalks over to the notice-board. _Fuck her self-righteous frown, by what right does she judge him!_ He scans his eyes over the fine print, hoping he’ll know what he’s looking for when he sees it. _That look of constant disapproval! The contempt in her eyes! Fuck that! _The letters swirl and rearrange and he grows even more impatient until— _no no no no no, NO. This can’t be. This won’t be._ The words swirl and he finds himself almost praying that he is reading it wrong. He must be, because right there, sitting cozy in the list of pairings for Selmy’s Classical History Assignment:

**Group C:**

**Subject: The Long Night**  
Brienne Tarth  
Jaime Lannister

—

The worst thing about this is that he actually _likes_ Selmy’s classes. And now, thanks to the wench... he is going to fail in them. There is no way she will cooperate with him and he is loathe to cooperate with her just the same. _Kingslayer_, the absurd conviction of her voice still rang in his ears. So _sure _of the title she throws in her face. _What does she know!_ He will not work with her, he will _not_.

But when he gets to Selmy’s office, he can already hear voices inside. _Her _voice. He leans against the door and eavesdrops readily.

“Professor, please I cannot work with him, please reassign me to someone—anyone else, _please_.” the wench begs and Jaime takes some mild satisfaction in how desperate she sounds.

“I’m sorry Brienne, I cannot do that. The partners for this project were randomly assigned. It’s the fair way.” Selmy pauses, “You may be my brightest student but I can’t make any exceptions. If I do this for you, then everybody could ask to change their groups, subject of research, everything. They could all want a reassignment. And I’ve already assigned the projects, I cannot reassign everything just for one student.”

There is a sullen silence and then he hears a chair scraping against the floor and then Brienne’s disappointed voice, “I understand. Thank you for your time, Professor.”

Jaime has a split-second before she opens the door and he moves away and positions himself against the wall like he’s been leaning like that, casually, pretending like _oh he didn’t see her there_—

“What are you doing here?” the sour-faced wench stares at him and Jaime give her his sharpest smile.

“Same thing you are, I imagine.”

She worries her lower lip, “So you saw the notice board.”

“Couldn’t miss it even if I tried,'' his voice is derisive as ever.

“So go,” she gestures towards the door, “go ask Selmy maybe he’ll listen to you.”

“No, I overheard enough,” there’s that pink tinge on her cheeks again and Jaime feels triumphant, “besides, I’m rather enjoying this.”

“Now you_ don’t_ want to change groups?!” she sounds incredulous at the prospect.

“Not if it makes you more miserable than me.”

She huffs and her nostrils flare and Jaime has to suppress a smile. Riling her up was almost too easy. “I don’t like you, Lannister.” she declares, her voice dripping with that familiar contempt.

“I don’t like you either, _Tarth_.” Jaime bites back. He wants to say meaner things but something in her face convinces him to hold his tongue.

“But we have to work together,” she grounds out, her eyes coming to rest on his and there’s that resignation there, however defiant, “This grade is important to me, so...” she raises her index finger for emphasis, “don’t make things hard or I _will _fuck you up.”

It’s a little difficult to look away from the fiery glaze in her eyes when she makes such lofty pledges. “Is that a_ promise_, Tarth?” Jaime purrs as he takes a step towards her, “you threaten the Kingslayer, do you?”

“I _do_,” she doesn’t flinch, burning her self-righteous blue gaze right into his very soul and Jaime has to suppress the sweet shiver that runs down his spine.

Too soon he steps away, cocking his chin, “then you’d better make good on your promise, wench.” he starts to walk backwards, hoping he doesn’t trip, as he opens his arms wide and declares loudly, “because making it _hard _is what i do!”

* * *

Even though they hadn’t decided on a time or place, when she gets to the coffee shop later that evening, he is already there, hunched over her usual table. He looks impeccably attractive with his wavy blond hair and black leather jacket, sipping from his coffee cup as he browses his phone. He looks like he got here straight from a photoshoot and Brienne wouldn’t be surprised if he did. Even his sneakers look designer (who is she kidding, they probably _are_).

“There you are, wench!” he exclaims as soon as he spots her, “didn’t think you’d show up.”

Suddenly Brienne is incredibly aware of how utterly plain she must look next to him, in her usual black denims and her brother’s faded hoodie. She_ won’t _even think about what her face looks like in comparison to his, she won’t fall down that rabbit hole, she won’t —

“You’re in my spot,” she mumbles and Jaime makes an exaggerated gesture of standing up from the seat.

“Aye, my lady!” he adopts an accent that is a weird hybrid of Northern and Pentosi, “here’s your Iron Throne that you doth desire!”

“I’m no lady” she replies reflexively, rolling her eyes at him as she settles in.

“Aye, ye may be onto somethin’ there, wench!” he continues in that same godsawful accent and Brienne can’t even be bothered by what he’s saying, she’s busy grimacing at how ridiculous he sounds.

“What in the seven hells is that accent?” she asks, choking on a laugh.

His grin falls and his brows furrow, “It’s a _posh_ accent. This is how the royals used to speak. It’s _very_ accurate.” but he sounds increasingly defensive and it makes Brienne snort.

“No, that sounds like a Northerner pretending to be undercover Pentoshi and sucking _real bad_ at it. Anyway,” Brienne continues without a beat, “we have been assigned ‘The Long Night’ and Selmy said it has to be a 20k words research so do we both write 10k each separately and put it together and call it quits?”

Jaime leans back, resting his arm on the back of his seat as he eyes her appraisingly, “you’re awfully eager to get rid of me, wench.”

“Trust me, I am.” she assures him.

“Too bad,” he frowns but his eyes remain alight with levity, “because we’ll both end up with 10k words of either absolutely seperate things or the same damn thing and neither of those have any purpose. If we want a good grade on this project we have to collaborate, or else Selmy will know and he will give us only half-credit at best. Is that what you want, wench? Half-credit?" He taunts but Brienne grudgingly admits that he has a point, "Besides, i would hate to not work with you on this project, I enjoy pestering you too much."

“Fine." Brienne concedes, "So we work together. I’ll find some books on the myths of The Long Night. You go through the internet directory, see if you find anything substantial.”

“Research on the Long Night is vast, wench. We will need to focus.” he drums on the coffee table with his fingertips, “Where do you want to start?”

“Will you laugh when i say this?”

“Oh now,most _definitely._”

Brienne sighs in exasperation, her lips furrowed.

“I was thinking Az—”

Jaime’s phone interrupts, buzzing loudly and he mumbles an apology as he checks the notification.

Brienne watches as his whole demeanor shifts, his shoulders tense and his face hardens as he puts the phone down without bothering to type a reply.

“You were saying?” there’s an edge to his voice when he speaks and Brienne is tempted to care about the sudden shift in his temperament.

She glances at his phone and his eyes follow hers. “There’s somewhere else you’d rather be?”

“_No._” He says in a voice that warrants no further questions and his eyes burn with… _something _that Brienne can’t quite place. She readily lets it go.

“Azor Ahai” she says after a moment, recollecting what they had been talking about, “I think we should start from Azor Ahai and follow where that road takes us.”

"Azor Ahai?" He rests his elbows on the table and nods in ascent “okay, sounds good. Here are some ideas I have.”

When Jaime speaks there’s no jest in his tone, just plain business. For the next hour and a half, they sit and outline the road their research will take. They talk about Azor Ahai and Lightbringer, The Long Night and the Others, Wight-dragons and Dragon Queens alike and Brienne comes to realize (to her utter horror) that Jaime is _much_ smarter than he initially lets on. Although he would stop speaking suddenly on several occasions and just stare intently at her notes as she was busy taking them. It made Brienne unusually self-conscious about her handwriting. But even then, his eyes would mostly follow the pen as she scribbles hastily on the paper. He often contributes some very good points and Brienne jots them down eagerly, telling him that she will compile the outline and send him a rough draft at the earliest.

“Take your time, wench we have two months to the deadline.” he yawns, “what time is it anyway?” he wonders as he reaches for his phone.

Brienne herself feels stiff for having sat still for so long. She suspects her butt might be numb. Discreetly, she stretches her legs away from the table, rolling her heels to bring some circulation back in them.

She is so intent on jotting down the last point in their discussion and then go home— that she doesn’t notice how Jaime’s gaze subtly shifts from his phone to her stretched legs, and _lingers_.

* * *

_The wench has nice legs_, Jaime admits albeit reluctantly, _very nice legs_. He continues to sneak glances at her while pretending to stare at his phone. She is very distracting in a way Jaime doesn’t know how to define, even to himself. She isn’t even aware of it which makes it all the more frustrating. For the last two hours, Jaime has been _constantly _distracted by her hands. He would be speaking, making points and she would nod approvingly, chime in here and there and start to jot down the important stuff. That’s when his gaze would shift to her hands and he would be_ so_ _utterly distracted_ by the way her fingers are shaped when she grips the pen like _that_, the way she steadies the edge of her notebook against her palm, the way her hand moves, glides across the paper— one look and he would immediately lose his train of thought.

And then she’d look at him with those guileless blue eyes, like she’s actually _listening_ to what he has to say; like she values his opinion and it’s _too much too soon_— he has to look away. Not that she notices it, he’s sure. She’s too busy taking notes and calling him out on his bullshit when he sprouts nonsense just to see if she is actually listening or just pretending to. And every time he would be just a little bit surprised that she is, in fact, paying attention.

He checks the phone again, this time determined to look at the clock and remember it. 10:05PM. They’ve been here for two hours now, inching towards two and a half. The thrice-damned message rests unread on his screen, just how he’d left it.

**Cersei:** _Tyrion won’t be back all night. If you get home before 9pm I’ll let you fuck me on the couch._

He had glanced at the message quite a few times now. Felt the pull of it and almost got up and left when the clock read 8:50pm. But Brienne was talking, and she actually _listened_ to him and to his surprise, he found that she was just as passionate about the old myths of Westeros as he. Thought he would _rather die_ than tell her that.

He could tell how she saw him: as this cocky bastard, this _kingslayer_ who loves to be hated, who has shit for honour. She saw what he wanted her to see, and she disliked him as thoroughly as he knew she would. There was some twisted comfort in that.

But then she would meet his eyes with an eagerness to _hear him out_, to acknowledge his thoughts and ideas and for _once_, Jaime felt fear and anticipation of equal measure. He was afraid of the hope that was swelling in his chest, just as he was afraid of how it excited him. He put his phone away then, listening to Brienne talk and stealing glances as she wrote ever so diligently.

He does not know _why_ while he’s watching her work, he sometimes forgets to breathe.

* * *

It’s half-past ten when Brienne packs up her notebooks and shoves them neatly into her bag. She yawns then, her empty coffee cup set aside. Jaime is watching her closely as she rises and slings her bag over her shoulders. He’s still watching her, without any mockery or any kind of ill-intention and it slightly unnerves her. Determined not to blush under his eyes again, she quirks an eyebrow in question.

“It’s really late, my lady” He puts on that _ridiculous _accent all over again and the surprise of it’s return makes her snort, but he continues (and there is the beginnings of a smile on the edge of his lips), “would you rather I dropped you off?”

“What?” It sounds so foreign that for a second she doesn’t know how to respond. _‘Drop you off’_ in the context of Jaime feels as foreign to her as perhaps the Wall is to the deserts of Dorne. Her face starts to redden. _Red as sow and half as pretty, _parrots a voice inside her head; and whatever little _confusion_ was brewing inside her, quells in an instant.

“Do you think it’s safe for you to go home alone?” Jaime was looking at her, puzzled, “it’s really late, wouldn’t you rather—”

“No, I’m good, thanks” Brienne replies hurriedly. Girls like her don’t get ‘dropped off’ by pretty boys like Jaime. It's not the sort of thing that happens to her. Besides, she’s been walking home for so long now anyway, “I walk home all the time it’s fine.”

“Oh. Okay.” She must’ve imagined the slight in his voice that almost sounded like disappointment.

“Yeah, uh. I’ll see you later.” She only meets his gaze for a quick instant before strolling out of the cafe and disappearing into the night.

* * *

When Jaime gets home that night, he mounts the drawing canvas he'd hidden away under his bed and sketches as hurriedly as one can from memory. And then he dips his brush in paint, touches the canvas, and then— then it’s _madness_.

A smatter of paint, then another colour, then another and then the merging of the two, the lull of the broad strokes along the edges and then the slow delicate tones, gentle and careful along the insides. And then the rush of harsher tones, the relief of highlight against shadows, red against pink against yellow, broad white strokes in the offset of blue. And then finally, the precision of the lines, the details of the edges and the rounded corners, the finishing strokes....

Jaime stops to breathe only after he's finished, which is sometime past 2:30AM and even though he isn’t quite satisfied with it, he likes it still. It’s the closest he’s ever come to drawing her hands _almost_ perfectly. When he closes his eyes he can picture it still, the milky white tones of her skin bathed in the warm light of the cafe. The pink undertones, the relief of the light against the dark, set in the contrast of her faded blue hoodie. One hand clutching the pen, like he remembered. Another clutching the notebook. The wrist of her left hand exposed, while the other hid inside her long sleeves. The painting was _her_. And he was not afraid of colours anymore.

Sleep-deprived and exhausted, Jaime crashes into bed after that, feeling satiated in a way he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

Cersei’s text in his phone remains unanswered.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said two chapters per week but life @uni is hectic and writing my thesis is already draining the life out of me...I hope you all are okay with just one chapter a week! I promise to make these chapters as long as the narrative allows me to make it.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never done multi-chapter fics before so here's to all the fic writers on here, you guys are brilliant I have loved and enjoyed all the work and I am deeply grateful for being a part of such an amazing fandom!
> 
> title of the fic is taken from Hozier's rendition of the AM song bc I feel like that one is just melancholic enough to be a Jaime mood.


End file.
